“Daffodil,” you say to your ten-pound poodle, “are we crazy? If we get wet, will we actually melt?”
You’re decked out in a weatherproof windbreaker and rain boots, an umbrella dangling from your wrist, and you’ve got Daffodil likewise donned in booties and a slicker. All for her obligatory afternoon walk.
Out on the covered porch, as the rain comes down in glassy sheets around you, you’re reminded of how, as a teenager, all those years ago, you danced barefoot, untethered, in the downpour. How you laughed at the old fuddy-duddies complaining about the weather, the way it aggravated their arthritis. But then you went to college, got a job with health insurance, two weeks of vacation a year, and an IRA. You systematically checked things off your to-do list like the diligent go-getter you were conditioned to be, until you had completely stopped dancing in the rain.
“No,” you say to Daffodil defiantly, “we won’t melt. I’ve never heard of it happening.”
And with that, you go back inside and remove all of the water-resistant items, and leave your umbrella behind as well.
Daffodil doesn’t like the rain touching her fluff at first, but soon she splashes through puddles just like you do. The two of you are a sudden rain-soaked sight, whooping and skipping your way down the street, block after block.
You wonder where time has gone, if it’s all just an illusion.
Neighbors call out, tell you you’re going to catch pneumonia, and you hear echoes of your grandmother, the fuddy-duddiest of all the old fuddy-duddies of your youth. Put a hat on or you’ll catch your death.
And now you wonder if death is also an illusion. Or if life is.
It’s when you’re sufficiently far from home that the metamorphosis begins. You notice the change in Daffodil first, the way her ears suddenly sag, then droop, drip, and drop to the concrete.
The leash then slips from your fingers as your hands also liquefy.
In hopes that it might be reversible, you pick up what’s left of Daffodil, maneuvering her between your handless arms, and scutter back to the house as quickly as you can. But the warmth inside only speeds up the process and soon there’s nothing left of either of you.
The only evidence that you existed at all is a puddle on the floor, and that will soon be gone as well.
